The End
by Mynus.Querit
Summary: There's something wrong with your life when you're ultimately used to being let down. Not entirely surprised when you're abandoned, and just overall expecting disappointment everywhere you go. That can't be normal. Then again, I guess people can always count on the infamous quote, based around the fact that things can't get any worse than they already are, right? -Matt/OC


**The End**

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**Summary:** There's something wrong with your life when you're ultimately used to being let down. Not entirely surprised when you're abandoned, and just overall expecting disappointment everywhere you go. That can't be normal. Then again, I guess people can always count on the infamous quote, based around the fact that things can't get any worse than they already are, right?  
**Author Note:** First fanfiction… published, technically. To put it simply, this will not be the best of stories and I'm a total noob *pfft* I have a tendency to write my sentences with structures that don't make sense. And my adjectives probably don't fit too many nouns for anything to make sense. But hey *shrug* once I get into the story, I'm sure things'll become more coherent.

This story will be focused on the OC character for the first three chapters, backgrounds information and such *waves hand* but I have a pretty good idea what I'm doing here…  
**Disclaimer:** More importantly, I don't own Death Note or the characters, all of which belong to the original artist.

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Chapter 0 – Patience

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"_You have three seconds to come out before I _make_ you!" Her voice hissed, the very sound resembling to something so utterly unpleasant it was indefinable, making my bare skin rise in defiance. Of course, that could just be my imagination, wrenching the vocal cords to help complete the very role as the sinister witch. But, however drastic the change may be, she was undoubtedly the enemy, therefor not a scrap of respect or submission will be given to her. Not by me. That much I vowed. _

_Said vow gives me enough bravery points to peek between the cupboard doors, squinting at her face and identifying the veiny wrinkles that rose like bugs under her skin on the stretch of her neck. A shiver of fear creeps up my spine and I curl further into myself, making sure the miniature wooden doors were secure before settling deeper into my hiding spot, more comfortable once I was sure she couldn't get through the barrier._

"One_," the voice seethes and my eyes fall shut, picturing her long nails curling into her palms, piercing the callused skin, ready to snag her claws into the softer flesh of my throat. If, of course, she could even find me, let alone reach. Leaning forward I dig my nails into the surface underneath me, gripping what I could in anticipation._

"Two_," the sound of her heels clicking at the stones tap away in my head, and I keep beat to each step, silently curling my naked toes across the flat of my feet. I haven't had this much adrenaline since I was handed over to my first 'foster parents'. A label used to disguise their true nature._

"Three_," her voice is sharp now, stabbing at the finality of the number, her voice no longer a warning seethe, and her steps, once rhythmically pacing seize in front of the cabinet door that I was nestled behind. Pausing at the lack of pacing on her part, I pry open one of my eyes, making out the shadow that casted over the little light I had. The witch hums, obviously aware of my blinded moment and vulnerability. _

"_Elena, come out. Mommy's patience is wearing thin tonight," the witch lets out a tired breath, a fragile, wrinkled hand curling into a fist and pounding hard on the walls of my castle, or the… cabinets, I think. _

_Squinting distastefully for a moment at her manipulation, I wrap my arms around my naked legs, pulling them against my chest and curling into myself the best I could. _

_Such a fractured being capable of sudden strength... A worthy witch she was. _

"_You'll have to grind my teeth down to the gums, cut my hands off to a stubble, and force me on to my knees before you get me! I refuse, damn you!" _

"_Elena!" The witch's voice is sharp again, but I was prepared for that. _

"_I said damn you!" Came my stern reply, so she'd know just who she was dealing with to a full extent. The witch, at the moment, seems to know better than to chew at me for my rebellion. There's another tired sigh from the field end of my barrier(cabinet…), signaling the enemies next approach._

"_Honey. I don't have time for this right now, I _need_ to get you bathed and dressed and ready for bed, tomorrow is a big day. Remember?" My ears perk at this, sensing a loss for the other team in the air. I also smelt victory. Sweet and sugary. _

"_You admit defeat?" I test, pressing my ear against the wood of the miniature doors, just to make sure I could hear correctly. _

"_I don't have time for this right now, Elena," is the witch's only answer._

_Seems that's the best I could get out of her for the time being. _

"_Damn you," I say, repeating what I believe has become my new catchphrase. _

"_Mommy's tired." She reuses her earlier tactics, and I'm starting to believe that this witch may not be all wrinkles and bones. But perhaps robotic. Making her extra dangerous, maybe even giving her the advantage. Untrustworthy qualities and something to be wary of, but her defeat is all the same. So that'll do. Giving into the pathetic pleas I release the ties that held my barrier securely and push open the cabinet doors, peeking up at the worn and crumpled piece of paper that I assumed was molded into a life sized female. _

_One who looked near death. _

_Crawling across the stone floor I gain my footing and stand to my full height, gazing up at the deathly stranger, one whom insisted I called her 'mommy'. To me, she was preferably "The Witch with Manipulation Powers(WWMP)", as I've said. But in all truth, my invincibility to such a thing is only wearing her out. _

_I could clearly remember what she appeared to be when she first picked me up at the orphanage, as wrinkly as she was at the time, she smiled false happiness, believing I would succumb to her easily. It was when we arrived at her cottage did I manage to rip away the mask with my own tricks._

_Revealing the black bones under that frail flesh. _

_Don't mistake me for a cheater, this battle was solely one on one. Just the witch and I. And the battles that we fight are definite, and only have one winner. The winner, obviously, being me._

_Opening my arms out for the witch, I allow her to think she has the upper hand despite me winning the last battle. The witch lets out a quiet sigh, lifting me into her thin arms and I can feel the muscle quake and shudder under my added weight. Stroking my dirty hair back from my face the witch quivers up the short steps, mumbling quietly under her breath. I don't listen to the mumbles, instead I hear her struggled breaths when she places me on the bathroom counter and starts my bath, ready to make me presentable. Because, by tomorrow, I will be sent back to the Home for Girls. _

_I'll return victorious(obviously) and be sent to another witch cottage, each one harder than the last. And when I go back there, dressed in my best dress, shined shoes, and perfectly curled hair I will wear a smile of true happiness and count the heads of the girl warriors that have returned as well, and subtract the ones that have failed their missions and were forever trapped away to who knows where. Each pressed and suffocated underneath the enemy's shoes._

"_Do you know where we're going tomorrow?" The witch questions, turning to look at me, her false happiness painting her face so fast I was sure the shock squeezed my very soul within its fist. She caught me off guard. I blink at her, then down at the bath before I finger at a greasy strand of hair, wondering if this was one of those guessing games._

"_I'm going back to the house..?" I question, and that in itself seems to shock the witch._

_Surely she couldn't have been that surprised that I was right?_

"_Why would you think that? Mommy loves you very much, Elena." My soul is squeezed again at the shock, and I'm left with nothing short of embarrassment. I was fooled. Dragged out from my protective barrier, so eager to believe she had given in so quickly. It would seem I had more battles to overcome with this one. She was a worthy opponent. _

_Ravenous._

_Squinting at her I cross my arms and bring my legs up to my naked chest, "damn you," is all I can manage to respond, having absolutely nothing left to say to this…this fiend. _

"_Elena," she says, more mocking now, and my eye twitches. Not in any sort of hurry the witch curls her long nails around my forearms, uncrossing them with little ease, though she manages to gain the upper hand in the end and picks me up once more. Grimacing at the feel of her cold, boney fingers I'm placed in a boiling bath. Or… no, rather, in a pot. Steamed to perfection before she decides to eat me…_

_This witch, no matter how boney or fragile as she may appeared, has yet to break. But of course, she's not going to win in the end. My victory is simply inevitable._

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Being a kid, it's only natural to have an overly active imagination. Though, admittedly, one that's somewhat tamed. When I was a kid, I wasn't much for the fairy tales, if anything, the things I imagined were like nightmares. Including the various forms of life eating witches, corpses with bones that substituted the flesh that should lay there. I was also equipped with outstanding vocabulary if I do say so myself... except said vocabulary and imagination did not make me favored by any possible foster parents.

Not that I helped much to try and balance all of that out. In fact, I recall purposely messing up any foster home I was brought to. Locking myself in crawl spaces too small for any adult to get through, refused to wear clothes or bathe (thoroughly convinced the water supply was poisoned and would burn my internal organs or skin like acid), and growled like some possessed animal. If it weren't for my outstanding scores on every single test I took and the somewhat sane personality I had when I wasn't caged in a stranger's home, I'm sure I'd be locked in an asylum. Or at least signed up for strong therapy.

But since I was such a … free spirit, I've been placed in several orphanages, some smelling of flowers and fresh bakery, and some similar to highway motels. I guess it could be considered living a fulfilled life while young. I mean, at first glance, I was an ordinary kid with no family to speak of, but upon an even _closer_ look, I guess I resembled a freak.

Shockingly, though, when I was six(outgrowing the growling, mind you) a women that was well past her 50's saw it fit to take me in and put up with everything I threw at her. She was also the only pushy foster parent that I had encountered that constantly insisted I call her _mommy_. Ironically enough, she was also the only foster parent that's become even remotely relatable to an actual mother figure to me. Or at least the only foster parent I've come to sort of/kind of respect in some way.

Her patience, mostly.

"Elena?" I glance up from my homework, homework of which no normal nine year old would be able to complete without throwing a tantrum and bursting into frustrated tears.

"Yes mommy?" Alright, sue me. It became a habit.

Her lips thin out to accommodate her wide smile, looking perhaps 5 years her junior – which wasn't much of a compliment, though it's still something. Bringing up a shaking hand she shows me the hairbrush in her hand, antique and slightly rusted, but elegant all the same. Nodding in her direction I close my text book and seat myself on a stool in front of her, where she resumes her daily task and brushes through the brunette frizzed mop of curls that was my head. And, as old as she may be, she wasn't one to be entirely gentle when it came to hair brushing.

Through the 3 years(4 years on November 3rd) she's had me, she's yet to figure out that my head wasn't as hard as she initially thought. Rather sensitive, if anything. Clenching my teeth together I grimace while she mercilessly rips through any knot of hair that dared get in the way of the brush. Clutching at the stool's edge, Mommy reaches forward, the severe shaking of her hand coming dangerously close to poking my eyes out while she attempts to brush a piece of hair behind my ears, determined not to miss a single strand unkempt.

"Do you know where we're going tomorrow?" she asks pleasantly, and I have to resist the urge to groan.

"Is this 'where' we're going to different from all the other times you ask?" I question, and her shaking hands stop brushing for a second, then continue once more.

"It is not," she says, her voice making my teeth grind together harder.

"Would it be believable if I said I'm coming down with something?" I throw back, trying to lighten her bristled mood.

"Depends," the smile is clear in her voice, "is this 'something' that you're coming down with different from all the other times you say it?" Patience. A virtue it would seem.

"It is not," I reply back to her, and now I'm smiling.


End file.
